


A Dog Knows Its Master

by Spitshine



Series: HTP Fills [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Also Just the Normal Kind of Sadism, Bad Stories for Bad People, Blood, Cone of Shame, Emotional Sadism, Five Plus One, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Kinda, M/M, Non-consensual Belly Rubs, Piss, Punishment, Puppy Play, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He did not know yet if this would turn into his more usual recreational purpose, but it couldn't be expected that he initiate things. A dog wouldn't do that.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>A dog would take what it was given, and be grateful.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog Knows Its Master

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You're a Kitty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305747) by [Dira Sudis (dsudis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis). 



> From a prompt on the trash meme: _The WS + some HYDRA goon, nonsexual dogplay._
> 
> I kept to the prompt, but I felt it deserved the E rating and the rape warning anyhow.  
> ___
> 
> Many thanks to dsudis for allowing me to write this as a sequel to the incredible _You're A Kitty_!

**[1800 hours]**

The asset stopped his first instinct—narrowing his eyes in distaste and backing away—and widened them instead as the import of Rumlow's words sank in. He'd met a lot of dogs, in his work for Hydra, ferals and strays and little pampered yappy things in targets' houses. He'd been required to study dogs, to learn their social cues for when he had to get through guard dogs and stealth was a necessity. He knew all about dogs, knew there was no way to twist this as he had with the cat order. Rumlow didn't say _a_ dog, he said _his_ dog. A dog would know its master. A dog would love its master.

“Yeah? You understand, buddy?” Rumlow used a singsong, I-am-talking-to-a-stupid-person voice the asset did not remember hearing before but associated with pet adoption day and lots of high-pitched squealing. Squealing that turned seamlessly to screaming,to blood. “Westfahl is a dumb fuck but I know how to treat you. You're going to love being a dog, aren't you? Yes, you are.”

Normally, the asset preferred Rumlow to the other handlers; he was efficient and thoughtful and never gave contradictory orders. Now, though, he couldn't stand the way his commander rambled on, grating and smug and ineffectual, but he didn't let that show. He didn't let his understanding of the situation show, either. He schooled his expression and looked up at Rumlow with joyful, blank incomprehension as he bounced forward to lick the man's face before settling back onto his haunches.

“You're gonna be such a good pup for me, huh? Yeah? You want some tummy pets? Some scritches?” The asset rolled onto his back, spine curved so his head neared his hips and his legs splayed, and let his tongue loll from his mouth. Twenty three hours fifty six minutes. There had been worse assignments. They made him keep some of them.

Maybe they would wipe this one. Maybe they wouldn't make him remember.

Rumlow pet him a few minutes longer, focusing overlong on one spot on his ribs that made his leg spasm wildly, before getting up and strolling into the living room. The asset whined as his master disappeared from view before flipping onto all fours and following.

He saw an empty spot beside his master's legs on the couch and hopped up, turning awkwardly around on all fours before settling down heavily, nosing into the man's hip. Twenty three hours thirty one minutes. He could do this. He did not know yet if this would turn into his more usual recreational purpose, but it couldn't be expected that he initiate things. A dog wouldn't do that.

A dog would take what it was given, and be grateful.

He worked hard on being grateful for the next ninety one minutes as Rumlow watched some show on Animal Planet, forced himself to leap off the couch and yip at the television every single time a dog barked, allowed himself to be comforted and coaxed back onto the couch only to repeat it all a few minutes later.

 

**[2000 hours]**

“You hungry, puppy?”

The soldier snapped his head up and forced his tongue to loll from one side of his mouth.

“Yeah, you're hungry. You want some dinner?” Rumlow walked off and the asset trotted obediently behind, still on all fours.

Once they they got to the kitchen, though, he forced himself up onto his hind legs—not quite jumping, he was a good dog, but certainly not four on the floor, either. A dog would be excited. A dog would not be able to contain himself. He shifted restlessly and whined low in the back of his throat.

Rumlow chuckled. “Calm down, buddy. It's coming, it's coming. Settle down, now. Sit.”

The soldier sat. Waited. His tongue still lolled as he kept his eyes trained on Rumlow, on Rumlow's hands, the dry hard food clinking into the steel bowl.

“If you want to eat, you have to be good. Wait for it. Wait.” The commander's voice was slow and drawn out, as if to remind the asset of the meaning of the command. There were no sudden movements as he carefully set the bowl down a few feet in front of the asset and stood back up. “Okay. Eat your food.”

The asset caught a slight hand movement in his periphery but didn't bother looking up to see what it was. His whole body surged forward, his face landing in the bowl as he ate so fast he barely had time to chew or taste.

Barely, but not completely. It was somehow both dry and greasy, inexplicably worse-tasting than the gray protein shakes he usually subsisted on. He forced himself to choke it all down, to lick to the bowl clean, to keep nosing it sadly across the floor long after it shone, clean and wet.

 

**[2300 hours]**

The asset crawled as far from Rumlow's small circle of light as he could before lifting one leg to piss on the ground. His eyes scanned back and forth, observing no bodies beyond his own and his handler's, no threat beyond the contained flame of a lighter, but there was no scent of flammable material in the air, so it was safe. He studied Rumlow's face in the dim orange light of the man's cigarette—human facial expressions were often a source of useful information—and found flat eyes accompanied by the particular twist of the lips that often preceded punishment.

 

**[0630 hours]**

The asset woke thirsty and crawled down from the foot of the bed. He made his way through the living room and kitchen of the safehouse but didn't see a bowl of water anywhere. He checked the hall closet, even, before returning to the kitchen and looking mournfully up at the tap. A dog wasn't a cat. A dog wouldn't turn on the tap. A dog couldn't. A dog was stupid.

A dog wouldn't wait to drink. Dogs had easier, faster methods of slaking their thirst. He saw one at it once, on stakeout. He'd hardly been able to believe any creature would do that, even staring right at the evidence.

A dog wouldn't wait to drink. 

He crawled to the living room but the toilet lid was down.

Rumlow had left not only the lid but the seat up as well after relieving himself the night before, the asset remembered.

A dog wouldn't wait to drink. He went through the bedroom to the bathroom there and stuck his head into the toilet. He missed being the asset, the ghost. There was no way to do this with stealth or grace. He missed being invisible, deadly. Silent. A killer. A soldier.

He lapped. The sound echoed loudly around the porcelain bowl. He lapped again, and again. A few drops took the sharp edge from his thirst, but a dog would drink until sloshing full. He stuck his chin into the water and lapped faster.

He heard Rumlow wake groggily but didn't stop drinking. He'd seen dogs. They focused on their own satisfaction until given a direct command. He couldn't make himself focus solely on something so inane, let alone so unpleasant, but he could make it appear he was.

He ignored Rumlow and kept drinking. He was starting to be full but wasn't there yet.

Rumlow was there, though. Rumlow was behind him already, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him out of the toilet, out of the bathroom, throwing him on the floor and slapping him around the head, snarling with rage. The thwack of skin on skin rang out after each word. “Bad dog. Bad, bad, naughty dog. You dirty fucker.” The soldier wanted to fight back, or at least to run, but he stopped himself. Tucked his head down and cowered, belly to the floor. Rumlow caught him under the stomach with his first kick and flipped him over. The second kick caught him in the ribs. The third, in his hip.

By the sixth, the asset began to worry this might result in actual harm. Another six kicks, and he had to stop himself from reporting damage interfering with mission. No amount of injury or brokenness would stop a dog from being a dog, and a dog couldn't talk anyhow.

A dog wouldn't be silent, though. A dog would whine and bark and whimper. The soldier collapsed into the corner, stared up at his master with big eyes, and got noisy. His whine started out soft and low but grew in pitch and volume with every blow Rumlow landed. Another got him in the hip, on top of an already purpling bruise, and he yelped loud and high enough to hurt his own ears.

For one long second, nothing happened. The dog sucked in a long breath and dared to tilt his head and look up.

The boot came down again, flat and measured. The aggressive tread bit into the skin over the asset's ribs and shoulder as Rumlow shifted his weight from toe to heel and ground down hard enough to force out a cough.

He yelped and tried to tuck his tail under himself as the skin burst under Rumlow's boot, blood spreading across his flank. “Bad dog, making a mess,” his master growled and he knew it wasn't him making a mess, knew there was nothing he could do any different, but a dog wouldn't say anything. A dog wouldn't.

A dog couldn't.

 

**[1100 hours]**

The asset whined and bumped the cone against his thigh, trying to get to the wound across his hip. The thick leather muddied his sense of smell and obstructed his vision, prevented him from inspecting the extent of his damage. It wasn't truly needed; he could tell from the pain level that it wasn't mission critical and therefore was not obligated to make a verbal report, even under combat mission conditions.

Rumlow knelt in front of him, murmuring in the singsong nonsense voice again as he fitted a thick leather leash to the asset's neck. “You think that cat shit was funny? You think it was fuckin' cute? 'Cause it wasn't. Idiot fucked up, I'll give you that, but you think you get to just twist orders to suit you now? You can't. You don't change the world for you, you little shit, you change it for us. _Us_.” He ended on a vicious growl, yanking down hard on the soldier's neck before moving fluidly to his feet and tugging his dog out the door.

One left, two rights, and a steep set of stairs later, Rumlow pulled him into a maze of tunnels he had a map but no context for. Whatever happened here, he'd be able to get back to the safehouse. Wait for extraction.

The tunnels were narrow and the leash short. The injured hip kept dragging against the rough wall, leaving an unacceptable trail of DNA evidence, and the cone caught on corners he couldn't see, over and over. They walked through the tunnels for seven and one-third minutes—six hours forty two minutes left until mission completion—until they got to another door, heavier than the safehouse's, thick steel. Rumlow opened it, pulled the asset roughly through before hip-checking it shut.

The asset heard the lock click but couldn't find the code for the flashing keypad anywhere in his tangled memories.

He couldn't get back, if anything happened out here. Couldn't wait for extraction.

The world seemed too big, suddenly, sun too bright, sky too wide, wind too uncontrolled. Trees too tall and the shadows between them too dark, too unknown.

“C'mon, puppy!” Rumlow's face was flat and hard, his voice chipper. That twist had returned, sneaking in around the edges of his lips. “Don't you want your walk? I fixed it special so you could go outside, get some fresh air without anyone watching us.”

 _Without anyone_... The asset shuddered and cringed. He didn't know if a dog would do that, didn't know if he'd be punished again, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't remember a time when his actions hadn't been subject to surveillance, recording. He doubted it had ever happened. There was a whole team of people who watched his every movement, broke each one down bit by bit and told him what he'd done wrong. How to be better.

His knees scraped against the ground as Rumlow dragged him resolutely forward. It took a kick to the elbow to get him moving under his own power, limping along on three limbs.

The asset trailed along behind Rumlow, focusing intently on the ground as they walked into the trees. The soldier had to be constantly on edge, always observing, constantly aware of his surroundings, but a dog didn't. A dog could be scared or distracted or anything it wanted. As long as it was obedient, it could do whatever else it wanted.

It could want.

The asset craned his head back to look at his master as they pulled up short. “Go on, do your business. Bet you have to go pretty bad after all that water, huh?”

The asset didn't have to go. He was trained as a sniper, could put off relieving himself for hours without a second thought, for days in a pinch.

But beyond that, the asset... didn't want to. Didn't want to crouch here and balance on his battered limbs to lift one leg and spatter urine down the other.

He could urinate, certainly. He could feel the pressure building in his bladder. But he didn't have to, didn't want to.

He kept his legs together, put his eyes back down. Pretended he hadn't heard.

Mistake. Mistake, mistake, _mistake_.

The boot didn't waste time with any extra pain, just caught him right in the bladder, hard enough to lift his entire back half off the ground for a half-second before he collapsed in the leaves and moss. He wheezed in pain, looked down to see the liquid, tinged pink, spreading across his legs, his stomach. The air was thick with the bitter tang of urine, the metallic bite of blood.

“I tell you to piss, you fucking piss, you little bitch.”

 

**[1800 hours]**

The soldier ripped the cone off his neck the second the countdown in his head clicked off. It obstructed his vision and limited his movement—both inexcusable qualities in any of his gear. He slumped back into the corner furthest from his handler and stared balefully at the floor. He would never go so far as to glare at his commander or be in any way openly disrespectful, but there were other, subtler, ways to let his displeasure be known.

He took a moment to bask in the relative freedom of being the asset, the soldier, of having at least his facial expressions be his own, before the slap ringing across his face brought him back.

He heard a zipper being lowered—he'd know the noise anywhere—but refused to make any outward movement, just tightened his eyes and ground his jaw.

“Look at me, soldier.”

The asset did his best to control his glare and tipped his head up to look at the commander's chin. The twist was back, if it had left at all.

“The mission is over, despite your sub-par performance. Your punishment, though? Only beginning.”


End file.
